


Neptune Blue

by Troubled_Soul



Series: The Universe by You & Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And they get back together again..., Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epiphanies, Eventual Fluff, Fix-It, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Parental Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock-centric, The solar system - Freeform, They break up..., bit of both, i think, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troubled_Soul/pseuds/Troubled_Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was okay in the beginning. At least, he thought he was fine at the time. He could live without John, he had done so before. It would just be like that. And it wasn't like it was ever going to last, whatever had been between them. He was bound to leave him sooner or later. That was how he was going to end up anyway- alone. And it was okay; alone was all he'd ever had, alone was what protected him.</p><p>Although as time goes on, the insecurity lingers, the realisations set in, and the heartbreak becomes real. He learns exactly how much of an influence John Watson had, and still has, over him. And as the gap between them continues to grows bigger and bigger, Sherlock Holmes realises that no, he's not okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neptune Blue

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT (5/4/15)- Okay, so this has it's own AU now and a sequel corresponding to John's side of the story. The ending has changed a tiny bit (like, a couple of lines of dialogue) but apart from that, it's the exact same. Oh, and I added some more songs. 
> 
> **Songs**
> 
> Sherlock-centric-  
> [If You Ever Come Back](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLJqJ6BDPnQ)\- The Script  
> [Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29GWMT0GB6s)\- Olly Murs (feat. Demi Lovato)  
> [Collapsed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-sKDDRczEc)\- Aly & AJ (I am so sorry Sherlock, but I couldn't help it. Also, blame the Bratz Playstation game for this.)
> 
> General (so the both of them)-  
> [Scarecrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8R8oATk7NU)\- Alex & Sierra  
> [Never Leave Me Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9duGOABvbE)\- Opshop  
> [Break Even](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzCLLHscMOw)\- The Script  
> [Stay with Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rC8RRXcfeo)\- Sam Smith (BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING HUH? No, of course you did)
> 
> As you can tell, I like The Script

"I think we should break up." 

They were standing in the middle of an empty street, in the middle of the night, covered in sweat with adrenaline pumping through their veins. Sherlock was surprised by these words. Although, logically, he knew that he and John wouldn't stay in a relationship forever, get married and whatnot (they couldn't get married anyway, the law forbade them), it still came as a sort of a shock. He blinked to show his emotions and John looked worried, but determinedly into his eyes.

"I know." Sherlock told him vaguely, because he had known, of course he'd known. 

Silence filled the gaps where Sherlock should be asking why but he figured that he can probably deduce why. So he stayed silent. And there was really no need for words because at the moment, he felt something in his chest. And it wasn't his heart breaking but it was something that Sherlock wasn't quite prepared for. Disappointment, maybe? He thought of it as unfair that John didn't have to go through this, because he knew what was going to happen tonight, and obviously he wasn't feel whatever he's feeling.

"... I'm sorry..." John apologised genuinely, quietly, gaze moving to the ground. Not so much ashamed or uncomfortable as uncertain.

"It's fine, John," Sherlock said with a quick lop-sided smile. "It's always been fine."

John smiled back, and held his hand out to shake. "Still friends?"

Sherlock looked to his hand, and then back to his face. He took John's hand into his own.

"Of course."

\---

John moved out on the thirteenth day after their separation. He said that it would be better 'like this', leaving the upper bedroom cleared of his belongings in his wake.

Sherlock consented to his leaving, simply because that was what John thought was best and wanted.

He played the violin far into the early morning so the flat didn't seem so quiet.

\---

Despite their pathetic handshake-of-a-promise, they never saw each other after John moved out of 221B. They had simply carried on with their lives, turning a new chapter where the other didn't exist; as if 'they' never happened. The gap had continued to grow between them, pushing them further and further away from each other until they were practically nothing. Sherlock didn't even have John saved as a cellphone contact anymore. So they both reverted to who they once were when they weren't together, as a couple and in general. Both went back to what they were and always had been doing. Sherlock hadn't really thought he'd cared; he hadn’t heard anything about John, much less seen him, but Sherlock guessed he was okay. Seeming he was the one to go away, he dealt with this all the time, no doubt. Neither of them had been affected emotionally. Majorly affected, anyway.

And Sherlock knew that it wasn't that it hadn't been working, it's just that they thought that maybe they weren't right together. After all, forever was a long time and maybe there really was a point where infinity turned to darkness and true love meant nothing. He certainly understood the situation when he was involved. Maybe when diagnosing what was wrong with them, John had read the symptoms wrong and maybe when Sherlock had deduced the scene of the crime, he'd been too blinded by the thrill of the chase to see what was really there.

Maybe they weren't meant to be.

_Of course we weren't,_ Sherlock thought reasonably, his chest tightening for some unknown reason,  _because everyone knows fairytales don't exist._

So Sherlock went on his cases alone and John was finally able to perform his job at the clinic with no interruptions. Sherlock talked to himself deep into the night (like he did anyway) and John went on meaningless dates without having to run off to save anyone. And Sherlock always sulked when there was nothing to do and John's empty chair was always there to witness.

He put it into storage, so it would stop staring at him.

\---

Three weeks after John moved out, Sherlock started to make two cups of tea in the mornings. One cup he drunk, the other remained until it went cold and it formed a skin and Mrs Hudson came up to clean and poured it down the sink.

He had never made the tea in the morning.

\---

"How come he's never here anymore?"

Sherlock looked up at Molly blankly from the dirt particles he was analysing. She had a worried expression on her face, laced with confusion and wonder. He'd been perfectly fine sitting at a work bench in St Bart's laboratory, doing work for a case until Molly had spoken up. It wasn't as if this were new, John had been absent from his regular visits to the hospital for over a month now. He and John had _broken up_ for over a month now. And if Sherlock remembered right, he hadn't even come all that often. He saw no reason for Molly to be concerned about anything.

"It's just..." Molly continued with a note of panic in her voice. "Well... Now... You always look sad now... And I was just wondering..."

"You don't have to." Sherlock replied tersely, going back to looking at his sample.

Then he remembered that Molly hadn't known about _them_. She hadn't known about John and him. That was John's choice, he hadn't wanted to tell many people. Perhaps because he had been uncomfortable with the idea. Either way, Sherlock respected that, and had agreed; it would've resulted in a large amount of paparazzi approaching them to tell them about their love life. He'd always been shy, John had always been shy. That was the only word Sherlock could use to describe him, throughout their entire relationship. Occasionally coy, sometimes nervous, but most often shy. Sherlock would compare him to a smitten sweetheart on one of those crappy television soaps that they always used to watch late at night, curled up together on the couch. But he wasn’t demure. No, John Watson was far from demure.

He remembered he would run his hands through his hair after his shower, when it was still damp and could be moulded into spikes, because he wanted to see the way the light shone off it. And John would always tell him to stop but would always be smiling because he liked the way it felt. And Sherlock would twine their fingers together and play with them because he was bored and didn't want to watch; John would just chuckle and squeeze their hands together tighter, still facing the screen. He missed the domesticity of it, the mundanity, the simplicity. A cold wave ran through him, deep in his bones. He missed John.

Sweet, shy, beautiful John.

Sherlock blinked in shock at his own thoughts, shaking his head to clear his mind of them. He had no right or need to think about John; he wasn't involved in his life, much less his love life, anymore. And he didn't miss John, there was nothing to miss. There was no one to miss. Domesticity was boring, mundanity was boring. He liked complexity, having to use his mind to delve deep into problems which were placed in front of him. Simplicity would make him lose his mind.

"Are you alright?" Molly asked again, maybe because he'd shaken his head and his hands trembled against the dials.

"Yes." he said quietly, stilling his hands and getting back to work.

But he wasn't really sure.

\---

Their relationship hadn't been anything extravagant. One night, after a case in the threshold of 221B, John had pulled him up against him, by the lapels of his coat. He didn't do anything, just breathed, forehead rested against the fabric of his scarf. Sherlock hadn't know what he was doing when he angled their faces so their lips pressed together. But John pushed back so Sherlock didn't stop. And somehow they ended up curled up under the covers of Sherlock's bed and neither of them had minded. So their friendship escalated to a slightly higher level without another word, and the both of them accepted it. The both of them did nothing to stop it. Nothing much had changed about their relationship though. John sometimes stole a shy kiss whenever they were in the dark and sometimes Sherlock would run his hands through his hair just because he could. The transition had been something Sherlock barely recognised, much less acknowledged.

Maybe it was that lack of acknowledgement that had driven John away.

\---

He slept less often. Actually, he probably slept the amount he'd slept before he'd met John. John had always forced him to bed and somehow, with his miraculous ways, had made him surrender to slumber.

He'd tried, of course he'd tried. But he'd just found himself unable, even after an interesting case; which he usually felt tired after, if only a tiny bit. He just couldn't succumb to sleep, not without the small body pressed against his front. Not without ashen blonde hair and the smell of tea, mint and body wash against his nose. He'd never known he'd become so accustomed to having John right there, in front of him, against him. To the point where it actually affected what he was and wasn't able to do. He had never known John Watson had held this much power over him; even when he wasn't even doing anything, when he wasn't even in the same room, the same flat. It made him wonder when he'd allowed that to happen, and if he had the same ability over John. It had been roughly three months now. He didn’t see how or why he should be thinking or functioning like this.

Sometimes, Sherlock would just look at John, observing his face and the stories that came with it. He would run his fingers over the wrinkles and lines, the bridge of his nose and the bones of his brows. And he would murmur the deductions into his hair, making John splutter or blush or hit him playfully on the side of the jaw. Tell them over and over again until John knew them off by heart and could speak the words with him. For hours at times, he'd do just this, until John or him could no longer keep their eyes open, until John shook his hands away and curled up against his chest. And it hadn't even been sentimental or anything, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Sherlock being curious and analysing what was in front of him, which had been John, at the time.

"You fell out of a tree when you were a child, scraped your forehead against the dirt when you hit the ground," Sherlock mumbled to the empty space in front of him, staring into the wall. "Aged seven or eight. It was Harry's fault, and she told you not to tell. So you didn't, and it was easy to hide because it was under your fringe. But putting a band-aid over it hurt and the scab annoyed you, so you picked at it until it scarred."

He could see it in his head. See the small, pale patch of skin that was half hidden by John's hair. It had faded with age, so it was barely visible unless you were right up close. But Sherlock remembered feeling the slight difference in skin texture and seeing the dull shine of it in the dim light.

"You broke your nose in your early years of high school..." Sherlock continued, though he knew there was no one there to listen. "During a rugby game and your mother wouldn't let you play for weeks. But you went out and played anyway, and you got a few knocks and hits but you didn't mind. It just took much longer to heal."

He closed his eyes in drowsiness, and his hands subconsciously came up from under the blankets to run across a face that wasn't there. So when he found himself grasping at thin air, his eyes shot back open and the idea of sleep fled. And he felt that strange ache in his chest.

His fatigue caught up with him in bouts, and every time he woke with his arms empty and the other side of the bed cold.

\---

Lestrade had called him in for many cases after John had left him. And he hadn't seen why he should go (as long as they were interesting enough). Many times, he contemplated texting John, but found himself not out of hesitance, awkwardness and doubt. So here he was, analysing the body of a woman which had been shoved into a wall which had been completely covered over. It seemed interesting at the time but now that he though about it, it was really boring and not really worth his time. But he didn’t have anything else better to do. Sherlock was running his gloved fingers over the expanse of her neck, she had been dead between two and three weeks, but that was a rough estimate.

"Jo-" Sherlock had to cut himself off before he finished. Too many times he'd done that, almost said it, almost said his name. So accustomed to him. Too accustomed to him.

The Yarders remained silent for a moment, and so did Sherlock because really there was nothing to say. And they didn’t know what to say anyway. 

"He's gone, remember?" He heard Donovan sneer from behind him. "You finally managed to scared him off. Like you do with everyone, freak."

"Donovan!" Lestrade scolded harshly, "That was unnecessary, as always," before lowering his voice and speaking to Sherlock. "What have you got, huh?"

Sherlock's fists clenched against his leather covered palms, even if he wanted to leave marks he couldn't. Frustrated with himself, frustrated with John, frustrated with everyone. Lestrade had been one of the only ones who'd known about them, Sherlock didn't know why, but John had told him. When they'd broken up, Lestrade told him that he was really surprised, and Sherlock didn't know why either. Hadn't everyone known that it wouldn't last? With John being bisexual at the least and him being him? He had never understood why everyone would think that they would always be together. He was bound to drive John away one day or another.

The fact that nobody knew was good, but sometimes Sherlock found it bad. It meant that he couldn’t say anything about it. He couldn’t yell out in frustration or anger because if he did then everyone would know.

"Laundry chute," Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, looking into the hole the police had cut in the wall. "She was knocked unconscious upstairs by a heavy object. 'Murderer' freaked out, didn't know where to put the body, saw the opportunity and shoved the body down the laundry chute. No one uses laundry chutes anymore, so the wall had been heavily sealed off, nobody could hear her, thus, nobody found her. That was an easy one, hardly worthy calling a four."

Lestrade nodded, and approached him while directing his team to sort out the scene. He led him away, telling Donovan to supervise while he took Sherlock to his car. They got in, and Sherlock curled himself up in the passenger seat as Lestrade started the engine and started driving away. He never used to take Lestrade's car, always following in a taxi. But he was always ushered into the front seat and before Sherlock could protest the engine was started. He didn’t really bother protesting because he knew that Lestrade was going to act the way he did no matter what Sherlock told him. The idiot. The DI was worried for him, and Sherlock knew that. He didn’t need worrying over, but he supposed he still went with Lestrade because the other man didn’t think so and wouldn’t let him leave on his own now. The Yarders must’ve been getting suspicious, this was compassionate, even for Lestrade.

"I know this is tedious, but-"

"Paperwork." Sherlock finished curtly.

"Well, if I give it to you to take home, it won't get done."

He blocked Lestrade out after that. The police station was a fair while away. Entering his Mind Palace, he found that it was a lot more cluttered than it had ever been. Since he’d broken up with John, some of it had fallen into turmoil which he hadn’t made the time to fix. He really had to go through some of this stuff... Why not start now? He dug his hands into the pile of information in front of him, pulling out a small piece of paper. He held it out in his hands and found it was a diagram of the Solar System, with all the planets and comets and cartoonish stars. They all moved around the Sun, like a video or something. Sherlock's eyes widened at it, pulling it away from the clutter and staring at it with aching nostalgia.

John had taught him about it, one of their late-night-telly-nights on the couch (a lot of things happened on that couch). He'd taken an old, crumpled piece of paper, which Sherlock was pretty sure was a bill, and drawn several circles on it and named them all. He’d even gone to the trouble of finding some multicoloured pens, colouring them all in, and then giving the whole thing a cheesy title. It had been endearing to watch, if he was being honest. John had looked like a complete idiot rushing about the flat looking for coloured pens to draw his ‘beautiful diagram’ (Sherlock wasn’t even sure they had any). He’d found some eventually, Sherlock had commended him for finding some. That was an achievement, if Sherlock had to admit.

"Right. So, this is the Sun," John had said, seated between Sherlock's legs with his back against his chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist, looking over his shoulder as he pointed at the largest orange circle in the middle before dragging it across the the page to a smaller, grey one. "Mercury, Venus," he stopped on a moderate-sized blue circle covered in green splotches, looking up at Sherlock with a smile. "Earth," Sherlock had kissed the side of his nose for some unknown reason. “Mars, Jupiter, Saturn," he circled the rings surrounding the latter planet. "Uranus, Neptune," before landing on the smallest brown circle. “And Pluto, although, Pluto isn't considered a planet anymore... And they all go around the Sun, Sherlock."

"I'm not going to remember this." Sherlock had told him.

"I know," John had smiled down at the paper. "But I like to think I taught you something... Even if only for a little while..."

And yet here he was. Still remembering everything about the Solar System. The Sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, even Pluto (which wasn’t even a stupid planet anymore). They all went around the Sun, which was a star, and Venus was yellow, Neptune, blue, Mars, red and all that jazz. He still remembered for some reason. 

When Lestrade finally spoke to him again, jerking him out of his Mind Palace, he had his hands in front of him. Raised as if he were holding something in his grasp. As if he’d been holding John’s Solar System. Sherlock blinked at the air in confusion before wrapping his arms around his legs. That wasn’t something that usually happened. He never physically did anything, at least, not that he or John had known of. Oh God... He hoped he hadn’t _said_ anything while in there, something embarrassing or sentimental that no one but he and John knew about. He leant his head against the glass of the window, feeling the vibrations of the engine flowing through the machine. He had meant to delete that.

"... Are you alright?" Lestrade asked, eyes flitting from him to the road, hands tight on the steering wheel.

"Yes." he said quietly, coat collar high and mental walls higher.

But he knew he wasn't.

\---

He sometimes almost texted John to bring home the milk sometimes. Then he remembered and had to delete the text and the number again.

And again.

And _again_.

\---

All the emotional turmoil was bound to catch up with him one day, so Sherlock actually wasn’t that surprised when he woke up one day and grabbed the knife from the mantlepiece and threw it into the wall, the sheets it once held in place fluttering to the floor. It hit the opposite wall with unnerving accuracy, jutting out like a sore thumb as the loud ‘thu-dunk’ resonated throughout the room.

Anger fuelled him, changing him from his usual calm, collected self to a monster powered emotion and his own stupid rage. He turned the sitting room upside-down over the day, leaving a trail of mess, chaos and sorrow in his path. Was it because of John? Or was it because he couldn't control himself?

The couch cushions ended up in the kitchen, the toaster in bits against the wall, every table flipped and paper covered the ground to the point you couldn’t see the carpet. Mugs ended up in shards across the floor and his chair was right by the window, there were dents in the walls from everything that Sherlock threw at them. He destroyed the place, tearing down everything in sight because he didn’t know what else to do, what else he could do. Blood seeped from the cuts on his hands and knees but he was too blinded by his own emotions that he either chose to not acknowledge them, or just ignore them. Red stained everything he touched in little splatters.

All this happened behind the closed curtains of 221B, and if anyone heard what was going on, no one ever came in and nothing paid any attention to it. Of course they didn’t, stupid beings, they never noticed anything.

What was this? This sudden wave of fury which had overcome him in such a way that it made him lose control. Then again, whenever John Watson was involved, he usually didn’t have much control over anything. This was no different, he supposed, as he chucked his skull against the mirror. It cracked in a spiral, distorting his reflection into some strange creature that Sherlock glared at bitterly.

He didn’t know when, but he must’ve exhausted himself to the point of collapsing. He woke curled up in the middle of the room, facing the closed door

_Alone, as always,_ he thought, before falling back into unconsciousness.

Mycroft had the flat cleaned up by his informants, and was there when Sherlock woke again. Still in the middle of the floor. Of course the bastard hadn't had him moved, he probably enjoyed seeing him in such a vulnerable state. Perfect blackmailing material. Sherlock hated him, and decided he'd need to get him back somehow. The flat had been restored to the exact same it had been before Sherlock had rampaged about it. Although, he doubted that Mycroft managed to get the same mugs.

"Ah,  _cher frère,_  you finally rouse," Mycroft hummed looking down at him from his standing height, his umbrella in front of him. "Mrs Hudson was worried sick."

French. He'd spoken French to John sometimes. Just at random moments, on cases, in taxis, eating dinner. Easy things really, that John could understand using his half-forgotten, high school French. John learnt from him, on cases it was almost like a secret code, everyone thought they were crazy. Except that Lestrade could understand. But Sherlock had never found that a problem, as he was one of the only ones to know about their relationship. Most of the time he just gave his own endearing reply to them, something like ‘shut up, you’re so cheesy it’s making me sick’ or ‘go get a room, Sherlock’. He’d just laugh while John would ask for a simpler translation. but soon enough, he learnt what those phrases meant too. Lestrade hadn’t really minded, and John had told him he liked speaking it.

There was this one time he fondly remembered, in the morning, just after he’d woken up to an empty bed. John had been in the kitchen making breakfast for them and Sherlock had snuck up behind him, nuzzling at his neck like an attention-seeking cat because he could, and John had once stated that essentially was what he was. 

_“Bonjour_ _, mon chéri soldat_ _,"_ Sherlock had told him tiredly, embracing him from behind. _"_ _Comment avez-vous dormi?_ _"_

_"Bien, merci,"_ John had replied lazily, his 'Sherlock's-speaking-French-time-to-try-and-answer-him' brain turning on. Sherlock could tell a lot of the time, John used context to translate what Sherlock was telling him. It worked, mostly. _"Et toi?"_

_"Eh bien, comme toujours quand je dors à côté vous,"_ Sherlock answered John’s brief question, the older man shivered in his arms, a reaction caused by a mixture of the low, roughness of his voice and the French which carried it. Something he noted and tucked away for later usage.  _"Vous me tenir chaud, vous savez? Il est agréable de se réveiller à."_

_"Je suis heureux,"_ John had said cheerfully. "... I don't know what that last bit meant."

"Mm," Sherlock chuckled. "A shame."

_You keep me warm, you know? It’s nice to wake up to._

He’d never told him what he said that day. Though he doubted John remembered.

"Shut up Mycroft," Sherlock spat, ignoring the memory and sitting up. His hands had been bandaged, crimson had still leaked through, staining the white. It hurt to support himself on them for too long, he ignored it. "How long have I been unconscious?"

Mycroft, however, knew he’d sunken into nostalgia in that small moment where Sherlock did not reply to him. It was painfully obvious. Thankfully, he did not mention anything of it.

"Twenty-seven hours," Mycroft informed him, walking around the rearranged flat. Mycroft's people certainly had cleaned up well. "I'll tell you now, you made quite the mess, Sherlock."

"That was my intention," Sherlock stood up as he silently fumed. His bones clicked and buckled in protest but he fought it, rising to face his brother's back. "And since when have I ever done anything but make a mess for you to clean up?"

"Touché," Mycroft huffed in slight amusement. The tap of his umbrella as he walked about irritated Sherlock to no end. "You ought to be less reckless."

"Boring."

"Indeed. Yet you say that emotion is below you."

Sherlock glared at him, remaining still as his brother wandering around. "If your intention is to lecture me about what and how I think, you can let yourself out now before I have to take action myself."

"I know," Mycroft sighed with a shake of his head. "I come not to demean you, simply to advise."

"And your advice is...?" Sherlock scoffed, brushing the dust from his dressing down. He moved from his spot to the couch. The mirror across the room had been replaced. Sherlock felt like throwing his skull at it again. 

Mycroft stopped his walking at the coffee table, bent down and picked up his skull using his free hand. He held it up at eye level, staring into the gaping holes in the face before throwing it in Sherlock's direction. It landed in his extended hands, and he brought it close to him as Mycroft made his way to the door. His brother had always been the one to give him 'advice'. As much as Sherlock was loathe to admit, Mycroft was the only one he could go to whenever he had to run. He always was the one to pick him up, to clean up his messes and to pull him back into line. All because he genuinely cared, and at times Sherlock had to remind himself of that. That despite all the cameras and ridiculous requests, snarky comments and just being a really horrible big brother in general, Mycroft wanted to help.

Sherlock had no doubt Mycroft had been watching over him those twenty-seven hours.

"Don't be an idiot."

\---

It got progressively worse, like everything did, Sherlock supposed. The pains never came as singular waves anymore, it was a constant feeling of longing that rattled his bones. His heart pounded so hard against his ribs it revebrated within his entire body, and made the tips of his fingers ache unexpectedly. His chest hurt and there was a slight pang in his stomach. He tried to convince himself that it was because he hadn't eaten in a while. But Mrs Hudson had forced a bowl of casserole into him, so his mind knew it wasn't true. He’d never had such a lack of control over his body, his mind, his thoughts. He never thought he could ever be incapacitated by one person so much.

Now he lay in bed, wrapped up in his blankets. He rolled around, restless and sleepless. His chest felt hollow and his throat constricted whenever he simply tried to take a breath. It hurt to move any of his limbs and anything he thought of could easily be linked to John one way or another.

It was a feeling of loneliness and bitterness, of what-ifs and could-have-been's. It hacked away at his mind immaculately, deteriorating him into some useless, broken being. And Sherlock seethed in the fact that heartbreak was real.

\---

The silence was deafening. More so than the thoughts. Sherlock locked himself away for hours on end in his Mind Palace because he couldn't bear to listen to absolutely nothing. When he wasn't holed up in the security of his head, he played the violin endlessly, walking in time to his own melodies. The neighbours got annoyed. Sherlock didn't care. Mrs Hudson would leave him food on the bench. Sherlock would ignore it. Soon his violin even became boring and he found himself walking around London making deductions out loud about everything and anything he could see. Cases barely kept him occupied anymore, and everyone at the Yard hated him more than ever, not that he cared about that. His world blurred into shades of grey; dull, dull, dull. Quiet, boring, doing the same thing over and over and over again. 

He had stopped eating and sleeping in the same way he'd stopped living.

"Why have I been rendered so useless?" Sherlock murmured to the ceiling, from his place on the couch. His violin had been put away and he'd just come from his Mind Palace. The Solar System diagram was still there amongst the mess, unable to be deleted for some reason. "I can't do anything without having to think twice as hard about not thinking about you."

And he knew that no one was listening and nobody cared about what he had to say; he said it anyway because, even if he'd grown sick of his own voice, it made the silence just a little bit more bearable. John was all that was on his mind, and he couldn't think about anything else to talk about off the top of his head but him so that's what he ended up talking about. 

"I... I would run my hands through your hair whenever we were sitting on the couch because you thought it felt nice; it kept you leaning against my chest and you kept me warm," Sherlock admitted with a blush to the empty room. The sentiment he'd never allowed himself to acknowledge had always been there underneath his actions. In everything he did for John, there had always been adoration and compassion and pride and love. That was when he realised, he'd never told him 'I love you'. "I would play with your fingers because they were smaller and fascinating and would tremble whenever I held them. And I thought maybe they wouldn't, because something inside of me thought you were scared of me. But your hands always would waver no matter how hard you tried to hold them still, because you weren't scared, and it always made me wonder why. I liked the way you squeezed my fingers tighter and laughed at me, because I knew you knew I was bored with whatever we were watching."

Sherlock closed his eyes, falling through the doors of his Mind Palace and drawing out every single thing that he knew about John Watson. He ran down the halls, opening every door, every window, every draw and cupboard. Everything he'd filed away on John coming back to haunt him. He let his mouth speak on its own accord and let his voice flood his ears because it felt better than just thinking about him. Maybe if he let these thoughts out they’d leave him for good.

"I would always act annoyed whenever you woke me up in the mornings so you would pull the covers off and kiss me again," Sherlock huffed amusedly at his own behaviour, expression falling when he thought of the memories. That was all they were now and forever would be, and it made his heart ache. "And I found it endearing how you always managed to steal the shirt I planned to wear that day. And I would walk into the living room without one, wondering where it was, to find you wearing it," He gave chuckle, thinking about John wandering the flat in something completely too big for him. "You'd just look at me innocently and I would just end up getting another shirt while you wore the other, even if the sleeves were too big and it was far too long."

He was surprised to feel tears running down his cheeks, but he couldn't be bothered to wipe them away so he let them trail across his skin. Over his chin, down his neck, resting under his shirt collar. He let them be because he knew why they were there, and he thought that it was an okay reason to cry because he was missing John. He'd managed to drive the only person who might've ever kept him away, the only person who'd ever gotten close enough to nab the heart that no one knew was there. Of course he'd blow his chances. That was all he was really good at, causing havok. That's why people strayed away from him in the first place. And yet John, dear John, had stayed, and he'd pushed him away. His hands remained steepled against his chest and he felt himself take another deep breath before starting another emotional soliloquy. 

"I didn't mind if it seemed normal or mundane, I didn't care about the domesticity of it. I liked sitting on the couch watching crap television shows with you. Even if they were so predictable and bored me to hell and back," Sherlock imagined he was talking to John, imagined that the older man was here and he would hear this and he would forgive whatever he'd done. And they would live happily ever after but Sherlock knew that happy-ever-after's didn't exist. "I liked how you would curl up against me at night because you were cold but you'd never admit it, or you would just kiss me in the alleyways because you were so high on adrenaline. I liked the way we'd play ridiculous games like Cluedo or Lava tag, chasing each other all over the furniture until Lestrade came in with a case and wondered what on earth we were doing. And I liked the way you fitted against my body and the way you always managed to smell like tea and the way you'd hum when I kissed your neck."

 

Too caught up in memories, reminiscences and nostalgia flying around his head like a cloud of mist, he choked on his next breath. It didn't allow him to see anything but what he didn't have but wanted so, so badly. Sherlock tried to shake them away but now he'd let them free, they wouldn't leave him alone. Dreams turned to nightmares, hopes turned to taunts, his demons finally made themselves known. The most ridiculous of things got to him, the smallest details made his chest hurt the most. 

 

"And I do remember the Solar System! I do remember all the names of the planets and that they all go around the Sun... I do remember your silly diagram with the unrealistic stars and the stupid comets flying in the corner. I told you I'd forget and you said you knew I would... And that's what I thought I would do! But I never did, because Neptune reminded me of your eyes and Saturn of your hair and I..." Sherlock's voice faltered as he stared with glazed eyes up at the ceiling. He brought his hands up to cover his eyes, humiliated with himself for not being good enough for the only person he ever wanted. "... I remember thinking that I wanted to be your Sun, because I wanted your life to revolve around me because... Because I didn't want to ever have to let you go..." 

 

Curling in on himself, he held his breath to muffle his uneven sobs and clutched at the gaping hole in his chest. Sherlock tried to stop the tears running down his face, tried to calm his stifled cries and compose himself. To create some semblance of his old self that had been taken when John left with his heart. What did he do? Where did he go wrong? Why did John leave him so abruptly? Sherlock hated not knowing, he hated the bubble of doubt which lingered above his head constantly. Was it his experiments? Was it the cases? Was it Sherlock never saying anything or was it just that John fell out of love with him? This insecurity was agonising, he'd never felt so unsure about anything in his entire life and it hurt.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and Sherlock managed to stop himself enough to look up at whoever had found him like this. It was Lestrade, concern running deep in the lines of his face. Sherlock hadn't heard him enter the room, much less approach him. How had he missed that? The DI squatted by the side of the couch, so he was face to face with Sherlock. 

"How long have you been here?" he asked, voice quiet like a child's.

"Long enough." Lestrade replied softly.

 

Sherlock blinked, and nodded because that told him he'd been there from practically the start. How hadn't he noticed him watching? Felt his eyes on him? How had he become so reduced to being powered on emotion to lose his abilities to observe? He hated it.

 

"That was beautiful," Lestrade told him with a weak smile, head tilting slightly so he could look into his eyes better. "What you said about him... How come he never knew?"

"Because fairytales don't last forever and 'happy-ever-afters' don't exist," Sherlock muttered resentfully, refusing to meet Lestrade's eyes. "Because I always knew that John was going to leave, so what would be the point in telling him in the first place? And he did, he left. And that just proves I was right." 

 

"Sherlock..." Lestrade said sadly, as if he were the one in his position. 

"This isn't me, anyway," he laughed bitterly, shaking his head against the pillows in denial. "This is insanity, this is idiocy, this is delirium..." he closed his eyes and hoped when he opened them this wasn't who he was. "This is drunkenness, this is a drugged reality." 

He was silent for a moment, Sherlock thought he couldn't think of anything that would mean something to him. Because that’s what people tried to do when you were sad, sympathise. When he heard his voice, his eyes opened.

 

 

"... You aren't insane, or an idiot, or delirious," Lestrade rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. "You aren't drunk, and you're certainly not high... You wouldn't be feeling like this if you were high."

"Then what's wrong with me?" Sherlock snarled, intending to sound snappy and cold but sounded anything but pathetic.

 

 "You're in love," Lestrade whispered gently to him. Sherlock spotted the wedding ring on his necklace. "And that's not a bad thing..."

 

He thought about John. John with his kind, cerulean eyes and ashen blonde hair just waiting to be ruffled by him. The way he managed to find Sherlock’s deductions ‘amazing’ or ‘brilliant’ even if he heard them a million times, his short stature which held so much more strength than anyone would’ve thought should they have not known him. The way he always made tea for him and force-fed him despite his protests. And Sherlock had never minded because he knew it was because John cared for him. He genuinely didn’t care what Sherlock did or was like, he defended him in some cases. Sherlock had never met anyone to do that before, to protect him. He’d also known that there would also be no one else who would protect him, care for him the way John did. And he thought back to the times where he’d said that it was solitude which protected him and how wrong he’d been when he’d told John.

 

 He remembered when John pulled him up against him that fateful night and the reason that Sherlock had allowed himself to lean in. That night in the doorway where they stood together on a teetering tightrope, waiting to drop over one side or the other. Sherlock remembered why, too. The reason he lowered his head and the reason John didn’t pull away. It was the need, the want, the lust, the desire; it was the adrenaline running through their veins and the thrill of danger in their hearts. It was the desperation to stay together, the ever tentative hope that there was something more to them than just friendship. It was love. 

 

“Love’s not a bad thing,” Lestrade told him again, soothingly.

_It feels like one,_ Sherlock thought, closing his eyes. 

 

 ---

 Sherlock had been walking around London five months after when he finally saw John.

 

He was on a date, obviously. The woman next to him held his hand and had some shopping bags and was now looking at the menu of a cafe. It startled him to see John after going so long without seeing him, to the point where he stopped walking in the middle of the street. Then John noticed him, and Sherlock saw the shock in his face too. And for a moment, it was just him and John; everyone else moved and carried on with life while they were just stuck in the moment. Sherlock remembered the late nights on the couch and running his hands through hair. He remembered his beautiful eyes and the Solar System and everything that he missed. And he wanted to be desperate and needy and wanted but John didn't want him so he stayed rooted in his spot.

Then John was dragged away, time was unfrozen, and the moment was gone. Sherlock could finally move again. So he turned away, running as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.

\---

Lestrade barged into the flat at eleven in the morning on the seventh month that John and him had not been together. Sherlock had managed to function a bit better, able to stay in the flat without the silence becoming claustrophobic. He'd broken his violin strings more than a couple of times though. Supposed that was the price to pay. He still did cases and still went on walks and never saw John. Nothing really changed. Grey. Dull, dull, dull. He'd been sitting on the couch with his violin when Lestrade had entered.

"Do you have another case for-"

"Do you guys even talk anymore?" Lestrade exclaimed, visibly fuming. 

Sherlock blinked up at him curiously at the sudden statement. He remembered talking for hours to John about things he didn't even care about. Things like their childhoods, cats (he had no idea how that happened), books, the smiley face in the wall, the Solar System. Now, he hardly spoke to anyone but himself, and the flat. And he was already sick of speaking to himself, and he was fairly sure that (if it had a conscience) the flat was too. He'd had no reason to talk to anyone anymore. Unless it was the Work and deductions. And Mrs Hudson, when she came up and force-fed him. But John...? 

"No." Sherlock told him tersely.

Lestrade looked wide-eyed at him with disbelief. "... No...?" 

"No."

"How can you-" Lestrade shook his head forcefully. "You guys live in the _same fucking flat!_ How can you not speak to each other?!" 

This statement came as a shock. Neither Sherlock or John (so he assumed) had informed Lestrade of their living situation, and it was hard to tell. Seeming that the flat was a mess whether John lived there or not. There would be no visible possessions lacking, so Lestrade couldn't have possibly known, of course he didn't know. Lestrade was as good as the rest of the population when it came to seeing things. He probably assumed John worked long hours at the clinic. And he texted often for him to come in, instead of actually visiting the place. So that probably didn't help.

"Lestrade... John... He..." Sherlock stuttered vaguely, not really wanting to talk about it. "... John moved out... Thirteen days after he told me... We haven't spoken since... We've seen each other once..." 

Another look of complete shock. "He _moved out?!_ And you didn't tell anyone?!"

"There was no one to tell, Mycroft already knew," Sherlock placed his violin in its case on the ground next to the couch. "And it didn't seem particularly important."

"... Well, maybe if you had made an effort to actually communicate," Lestrade sighed exasperatedly, facing him with a disappointed expression.  "You'd see how much the both of you were missing each other."

So Lestrade had seen John then? A jolt of jealousy ran through his system, but he ignored it for the situation at hand. John didn’t want to see him, there was no point in being jealous. Shaking his head, Sherlock leant back into the couch with a sullen expression overcoming his features. "You don't understand, Lestrade. John doesn't want me in his life anymore. He pushed me out."

"Have you seen him lately?" 

Sherlock's face morphed from sullen to melancholic. "I saw him on a date approximately two months ago. Seemed happy enough."

Lestrade sighed again, and came to stand in front of him. He placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, staring him in the eyes. There was a type of brotherly or even parental love in his actions. It was the same as what Mycroft expressed to him, except more open and clearer on his face. He’d known Lestrade for a while now, ever since he’d dragged him out of the drug houses and brothels, but they had never been particularly close, at least, Sherlock hadn’t thought so. 

"You need to go see him." Lestrade said softly.

"He doesn't want to see me." Sherlock murmured back.

"You don't know that."

"He hasn't come."

"You haven't gone," Lestrade countered back, patting him on the back a couple of times. "Come on, this isn't the Sherlock Holmes I know, aren't you wanting to take up a challenge?"

He thought of himself curled up feebly on this couch, crying, aching. Rampaging around the flat wrecking everything he lay a hand on. The dents in the walls were still able to be seen. He thought about the lack of control and the fury he’d felt, the way he’d allowed himself to be consumed by emotion instead of containing it and letting his mind do everything. He’d let his body take over his brain. 

"That Sherlock Holmes is gone."

"I know," Lestrade told him blankly, pulling his hands away and standing upright again. "But now you're bitter and depressed and heartbroken and… Honestly? You look fucking pathetic,” his voice grew louder as he continued to talk, becoming angrier and more determined to get through to him. "You're like some lovesick pup, and it… It just makes me sad… It's downright ridiculous… Surely you can figure out that sulking here isn’t any better than going to see him and, I don’t know, telling him everything you told the flat!"

“I am being logical!” Sherlock spat back petulantly. “John doesn’t want to see me, why do you think he left in the first place?! If he doesn’t even want to see me, why would he give a damn about anything I have to say?"

Lestrade looked at him incredulously. “Oh my God…"

“… What…?” Sherlock replied in the same tone.

“You… You think that this is some sort of equation or something?!” Lestrade exclaimed in disbelief, pacing the floor in front of him as he ranted to him. “Sherlock, this is your feelings we’re talking about! There’s no right or wrong, no black and white! This isn’t a crime scene which you can deduce like everything else you do, people don’t work like that. Relationships run on trust and reaction and impulse and you’re trying to take it apart like it’s some sort of machine but… It’s not. It’s really not…"

“Why do you care?!” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, cynically scrutinising his motives. “Why does it bother you that I don’t do anything anymore? Why does it matter that I’m letting myself waste away where the world doesn’t have to see?!"

The older man came and stood in front of him again, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes with a blank expression that still held that same note of parental fondness. And it was then that Sherlock realised that it was because Lestrade saw a bit of himself in Sherlock, and it might’ve not been his personality or anything (because they weren’t really anything alike) but there must’ve been something. He pulled out a chain on his neck; the ring.

“I lost my wife because I _chose_ not to talk to her,” Lestrade told him quietly, holding the golden ring between his fingers. “All those on-off years? It was because I tried and told her things but eventually I stopped because she drifted further away from me, and I could see that. Then she left. For good,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, Sherlock could see his eyes watering up. "And I found myself in the exact same position you’re in, Sherlock; lying on the couch talking to the walls of my empty flat and no one giving a damn."

He shook his head, running his hands through his hair as he too tried to keep control of himself. Sherlock could see the rage that ran through him; something so powerful and raw that he wondered how Lestrade had ever kept it bottled up. It looked consuming, scarily so. These displays and outbursts of emotion were not something he was used to so to see them being used as a weapon made them seem more detestable than usual. But could he say that? He’d become victim to them.

"So you wanna know why I care? Because I don’t want you to end up like I did. Alone and regretting everything I didn’t do!” Lestrade shouted at him in utter frustration. “Because I know what it feels like when the only person you ever wanted is finally gone and there’s nothing you can do about it!"

Lestrade seemed to finally recognise what he was doing, the way he was yelling and the way he’d lost control because of something that happened long in the past. Drawing back, he repeatedly muttered to him, ‘sorry, I’m sorry, sorry’. Sherlock didn’t see why he was apologising. Lestrade then darted towards the front door with something akin to humiliation radiating around him, stopping briefly at the threshold to compose himself before having to face the world again. Sherlock wished he was as capable.

“Sherlock Holmes, I once said you were a great man,” Lestrade whispered airily. "This is your chance to prove you are a good one too."

\---

He found the old bill with the diagram of the Solar System on it, crumpled up in the crevices of the couch. The planets had faded so Sherlock coloured them in again and wrote over John’s writing. He even looked up on the computer all the planets so he got them right, and it turned out that yes, Neptune really was that blue and that all the planets went around the sun.

The bill was folded up and put in his Belstaff pocket. 

\---

He was going to follow Lestrade’s advice, go talk to John and see what the outcome was, but he didn’t know where to go. Of course, he knew where John worked and where he lived (Mycroft) and where he hung out but… He didn’t really want John to be in any of those places, he wanted John to be here. In Baker Street, entwined with him on the couch or under the duvets of his bed. But there was no chance of John ever coming back, so Lestrade was right. He had to go to him.

So now, a full seven and a half months after, Sherlock stood outside the door of John's current flat, glaring it in the face. He’d been there for forty minutes. Why was it so hard to knock? Why did the idea of facing John again seem so terrifying? He groaned in frustration with himself. God, the DI wasn’t kidding when he’d said he was ‘fucking pathetic’. He couldn’t even pull up enough courage to face his ex… His only ex, for that matter, but that didn’t really seem to apply at the moment. He let his head drop against the wood. Well, this could work. He did it again. And again. And again. The thudding of his head on the door creating a monotonous rhythm throughout the hallway.

 

“… Sherlock…?"

 

Jerking away from the door, he turned to his left to see John standing a few metres away, a couple of bags in one hand and a key in the other. He looked the same, yet so different at the same time. He’d lost weight, and the wrinkles in his face appeared to have deepened. His hair wasn’t messy as usual (because Sherlock used to always run his hands through it, so it always looked askew to some degree), he’d let it grown a little. Which Sherlock thought suited him. But his eyes, God, his eyes, they were still that same beautiful blue. Sherlock looked at him with a face akin to an owl. 

 

“… I thought you were home…?"

“… I had a late shift…” John told him slowly as Sherlock shuffled out of the way so he could unlock the door. “Um… Come in…"

Sherlock practically dashed inside, observing the new surroundings. It was clean, out of habit, and stark, because John didn’t own that much anyway. He had not had anyone around for a while, so it seemed, no dates since the one Sherlock saw him on maybe? He made himself comfortable standing in the middle of the room, since he didn’t know where else to settle. John entered the small kitchen, popping the bags down on the counter as he did. Organising the things he’d bought, he turned back to Sherlock briefly.

“Tea?"

“Yes.” Sherlock immediately replied.

“Okay."

It was utterly cringeworthy, Sherlock wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He stayed ramrod still in the middle of the room while John moved around making their tea, back facing him the whole time. The tension was painfully tangible, you could probably cut it with a knife. 

“How are you?” he asked quietly, and instantly regretted. 

“I’ve been… I’m good.” John replied in the same soft tone, glancing back at Sherlock. “You can sit down, you know?"

“I’m perfectly comfortable here."

John didn’t push it. Sherlock was grateful as he came over with a mug of tea and held it up. “Two teaspoons of sugar and milk."

“Thank you.” Sherlock held it in two hands, bringing it to his lips and taking two big gulps. It scalded his throat but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“So…” John leant against the armchair next to them. 

Sherlock just kept his mug to his mouth, not really sure how to approach the topic. John chose not to speak either, so they just stood there, drinking tea in silence. Sherlock snuck glances at John, being careful while deducing what had happened to him over those seven months (and a half) that they hadn’t seen each other. He worked a lot more, the dust around the flat a clear indicator of that. He supposed that John just needed it to pay the rent. Living in London wasn’t cheap.

Soon enough, his own cup was emptied and he no longer had an excuse not to talk, so he placed it down on the small table behind him and shoved his hands in his pockets. His fingers brushed a piece of paper, crumpled and stained with tea in the corner (sort of, it was the corner of the page due to the fact it was folded in half); he had to make sure the shock didn’t show on his face. Sherlock had forgotten about it, usually he didn’t even notice it but now he was hyperaware of it… This was going to be as better a way as any.

Sherlock pulled out the old bill and handed it to John.

He put down his cup and took it with a puzzled face, opening it up. “… Sherlock, this is a bill for the flat rent from ages ago."

After a moment of agonising scrutiny, Sherlock cocked his head towards the diagram that John couldn't see.

“On the back.” Sherlock coughed awkwardly.

John folded it again and turned it over, visibly freezing. He stared wide-eyed in surprise at his own drawings, his own writing. His fingers ran over it gingerly, as if he would smudge the pen if he had forcefully done so. 

“… The Solar System…” John laughed out breathily with a slight smile. He held it up. “I doubt you remember what this all means, do you?"

Sherlock felt his stomach twist. Of course he didn’t care. “That’s what I thought."

“… What do you mean…?"

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock gave him a quick smile, steeling himself up before heading towards the door with long strides.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” John came after him, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back before he could get anywhere. “I don’t get it, Sherlock. Why did you bring this to me?"

Desperately, he tried to pull himself out of the grip that John had on him, to stop himself from revelling in his touch because it meant nothing. So he struggled, using both hands to try and removed both of John’s. But John was a solider, he was strong and determined and he knew how to put up a fight. It was one of the characteristics that Sherlock had always loved about him because at the moment, he was being stronger than him and he hated it. And the whole situation made him wonder what he was fighting for; him, or a petty explanation like he did for all his deductions, as if they were silly magic tricks. The thought of that made him sick to the stomach, so he slammed a fist into the wall because he knew it would hurt and the pain would make it seem more bearable.

“Sherlock!"

They stayed playing tug-of-war with Sherlock’s arm against the wall for a while, and Sherlock couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t let it go. Was it because he wanted to see him like this? Vulnerable and humiliated with himself? He silently pleaded for John to just leave it alone, to forget it. But obviously, he wouldn’t.

“You can’t just give this to me and leave without an explanation! I-"

“I tried, okay?!” Sherlock yelled as he turned to face him with a completely desperate expression, John shrunk back, letting go of him in shock. And Sherlock felt defeated because he’d finally managed to be broken. “I tried to forget the Solar System because it took up space in my Mind Palace, but I _couldn’t_ forget it! Because when we were sitting on that couch together and you were pointing to some stupid coloured circles on a crumpled, old bill, I couldn’t stop looking at you!” 

Sherlock swivelled around to face him fully, John’s face went through many emotions that came and fled too quickly for him to analyse and capture them all properly. He stepped back, hands still and face finally settled on realisation. Finally putting together the pieces of the puzzle, finally figuring out why Sherlock was there. Stumbling back, Sherlock fell against the door because he could, and because he really needed something to support himself on. Before his knees hit the floor and he started full-out begging. There were things that Sherlock Holmes definitely wouldn't allow himself to succumb to. Begging was one of them.

“I couldn’t forget the Solar System because…” Sherlock's voice got stuck in his throat, and he thought back of when he’d been alone, delirious with heartbrokenness and regret, talking to the flat. And he remembered Lestrade yelling at him fuelled by his own bitter lament, telling him to do something. “Because of… Because of Neptune... And Saturn... And the stupid stars and comets in the corner!"

He pressed his hands to his forehead in mortification. This was absolutely degrading, but if it gave him another chance with John, he'd do it. Sherlock shook his head against the door, closing his eyes because he really didn't want to see John in this state.

“I couldn’t forget the Solar System because it reminded me of you,” Sherlock said brokenly, needy and hopeless, voice quiet and soft. “And… And I…"

Sherlock looked at him with helplessness. This is what he fought to not become. A man controlled by rage and grief and desire and lust and love; controlled by someone he’d let too close. And here he was, a broken man standing in front of the only person who could fix him, waiting to see if he chose to fix him.

“I’m in love with you…” he breathed out with as much feeling as he could because he knew he’d never told John and the look of surprise on his face was beautiful. “And you’ve been driving me crazy over the past seven months because I couldn’t stop thinking about you and your eyes and your hair... The way we’d sit on the couch together late at night and how you'd steal my shirts in the mornings. And I hated myself, and I hate myself now because I know you don’t want me here anymore because I saw you with that woman, so obviously, you've moved on, but I-"

Hands crept up on to his shoulders, and Sherlock was surprised to find himself being pushed against the door, even more so when John’s lips started moving urgently against his own. Unable to help himself, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist, holding him close. He'd missed this, he thought as his eyes slipped shut, God, he'd missed this a lot. The solidness of John's body, the warmth and weight of it. The smell of tea and he'd even bought the same bergamot body wash Sherlock used. The younger man tightened his grip on his back, maybe a bit too hard but he was too desperate to care. The diagram rubbed uncomfortably against his jaw, and John must’ve noticed because he released it from his grasp and let it flutter down to the ground beside them. John was crying when they parted and Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, a hand brought up to his mouth to try muffle his sobs. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” John whispered unevenly, almost lost behind his hand in the choked gasps. “God, I’m so, so sorry…"

Sherlock just brought a hand up and brushed it through his hair. Just because he could. Because John kissed him and surely that meant that he loved him. Surely that meant that Sherlock meant something and he too wanted to try fix themselves using each other. The luxury of messing up John's faded blonde locks had Sherlock grinning happily to himself. Beautifully dishevelled and marvellously out of place. He was perfect. 

“… I know you have unpredictable tendencies... I know you only take time to notice things that you find interesting... You start things and if you decide they aren't working you break yourself off... ” John quivered against him, both hands coming up to cover his face. Sherlock realised that John was just as humiliated as he was with this. “And that night? On the couch with you wrapped around me and the Solar System in my hands... I suddenly realised that you get bored of things... And... And I thought that you would get bored of me... I didn’t want that to happen..." Sherlock planted a comforting kiss at his temple, a hand coming up to cradle his head close to his neck. He wished he didn't have his scarf on. "I didn't want to see you fall out of love with me... The thought of it haunted me, and that doubt just kept growing... So I ran away before I actually had to witness it. 

John pulled away and leant against the wall next to him, sighing in something similar to defeat, regret clear in his voice and words. His eyes closed and he slid down to sit on the floor, putting his feet up against the wall even if it was spacious enough for him to sit with his knees bent, feet on the ground. It somewhat reminded Sherlock of a child. 

"I was scared, Sherlock... You always thought my hands trembled because I wasn’t scared… They trembled because I _was scared_ , not because I wasn't. I was in so, so deep…” John muttered almost inaudibly, shaking his head from side to side. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt something so intense for one person… And I don't know how I got there but... I ended up face-first, falling into you... And I was happy. You made me so, so happy. But I don't think I could've survived to watch you drift away from me..." 

The detective blinked down at him in shock. He never really thought that John would be scared of _him_ letting him go, in his mind it was always the other way around. But now that he had John’s perspective in hand, his departure from his life seemed a lot more reasonable. With his personality and his mannerisms, he was sure that John would get sick of him, not the other way around. He suddenly realised that the reason that they fell apart wasn’t because they weren’t meant to be, but because they were both so scared of mucking up and not being good enough that they closed each other off. They simply just distanced themselves, never talking about their worries and never making them known. Lestrade was right. They stopped talking. And that is what made them drift away. Which annoyed him because it was his job to notice everything. Sherlock slumped against the door, joining John on the ground. So they sat there, two men in a narrow hallway. 

"... Made...?” he finally asked quietly, tentative and unsure. 

“…  _Make_ ," John corrected himself with a bitter laugh, feet sliding down the wall. “You… You still make me so happy, Sherlock."

With that confirmation, Sherlock shuffled closer so they were seated next to each other. He didn’t do anything (though he vaguely thought of thanking Lestrade), and they remained sitting in the entrance for a few minutes in silence. It was calm, and somewhat peaceful now that underlying tension wasn’t there. Now that they knew that they both needed each other equally. Sherlock awkwardly moved his hand, placing it supine next to John. The other man looked at him in slight bewilderment, and Sherlock blushed, gesturing to his upturned palm before looking away in embarrassment. Then he felt a hand place itself atop his, twining their fingers together and squeezing tightly. Sherlock grinned to the wall in front of him and before he knew it, John was straddling his lap, arms looped around his neck. 

“We’re both idiots,” John told him quietly.

“I know,” Sherlock agreed, wrapping his arms around his waist. “I know."

In the entrance way of a rundown flat, that they got lost in each other and drunk off each other. Face to face, noses touching. Sherlock breathed in raggedly as he moved his lips against John’s, revelled in his closeness, his warmth and weight. His hands ran over his chest and back while John’s explored his face, fingers gingerly running over his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead. When biology forced them to, they parted, but only for a breath before Sherlock would chase John’s lips once again, not wanting to be apart for more than a second. 

_“I love you,”_  John murmured against Sherlock’s lips as they moved. _“I love you, I love you, I love you."_

John pulled away at some point, whining when Sherlock tried to seek out his lips again, stopping him by grabbing him by the head. God knew how much time had passed, but all Sherlock could see was John. They grinned at each other stupidly, eyes sparkling like stars from their tears. Then Sherlock tugged him back in and it was there that they stayed kissing, the Solar System at their feet.

**Author's Note:**

> I found the perfect word for Sherlock, [cafuné](http://other-wordly.tumblr.com/post/13875529289/cafune)!


End file.
